Left To Die

“My friend,” someone said at last. The magician glanced over to a young man with a scraggly goatee. He had the look of some sort of starving artist, complete with an artisan’s cap and a black shirt which read “Rock & Roll.” The magician tried not to allow his distaste to show. Music was like wine; when treated with indifference, it could only give someone a stomachache.

“Yes?” said the magician. “Are they here?”

Scraggly-beard nodded quickly, and he hurried over toward another table at the back.

The magician’s French wasn’t great, but it wasn’t as bad as he often pretended. And he could understand the conversation well enough. Even over the din of the bar, he heard the man with the scraggly beard saying, “Come, he has a trick to show us.”

The friend seemed reluctant, but at the insistent pulls on his arm, got slowly to his feet and allowed himself to be guided over.

“And you’re twenty-three?” the magician asked, glancing at the man with a curious look. He could feel his mouth go dry all of a sudden, but resisted the urge to wet his lips.

The newcomer nodded slowly, his eyes wide beneath dark hair. “Yes, my birthday was in July.”

The magician flashed his crocodile grin. “Count out twenty-three cards. Here.”

The newcomer hesitated, frowning. “Does this trick take very long? What is it?”

“Patience,” said the magician, still smiling. “I’m about to show you.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Adele turned up the final street, her arms straight at her side, her brow crumpled over glaring eyes. If the APB didn’t get a hit soon, he could leave Paris. He could kill and escape.

She turned the corner, facing the side of the street where she had parked her loaner. There, sitting on the hood of the Nissan sedan, the lanky form of John waited, his arms crossed, a look of impatience on his face.

He reached up and adjusted the collar of his shirt over the burn mark which stretched down his throat and across his neck. He muttered a few choice words, which Adele couldn’t hear. John passed a hand through his hair, pushing it back and adjusting stray bangs behind his ears. DGSI had a dress code, but it was considered more suggestion than coercion. And John, with his military cut sides, messy bangs, and unkempt stubble seemed particularly averse to persuasion.

Adele could still feel her frustration swirling inside her, trying to lay claim to her thoughts. The killer couldn’t escape.

She muttered to herself and stomped forward, approaching her sedan. A surge of annoyance twisted through her at the sight of John sitting on the car, leaning against the windshield as if he owned the thing. While it wasn’t hers, it didn’t hurt to treat government property with a bit of respect.

“There you are,” John said, noticing her for the first time. If he knew his posture would frustrate her, he made no move to alter it. He shifted a little, causing the hood to protest with a metallic groan, suggesting he could easily put a dent in the thing.

“Could you get off,” Adele said in a patient voice, though she didn’t feel like it.

John raised his hands in mock surrender, peering with dark eyes down his pronounced Roman nose. “It’s all right, American Princess. How come I couldn’t reach you?”

She shook her head, then tapped at her pockets and pushed a sigh skyward. “Dammit. Must’ve left the phone in the car.”

She stepped past John and peered through the windshield, noting the phone sitting in the cup holder through the tinted window.

“I just needed to clear my head,” she said, glancing at her partner. “I’m serious, get off. You’ll put a dent in the thing.”

John nodded, adopting a look of sincerity. “Oh, of course. I’m sorry.”

He made no move to rise. “Maybe, just a suggestion, in the future you shouldn’t leave yourself completely without any mode of communication.” He shifted again, the heels of his shoes at the end of his long legs tapping against the metal rim of the front right tire.

“Could you stop,” Adele snapped, feeling the annoyance rising in her like bile in the back of her throat. “I’m not in the mood.”

He smirked. “Any new leads?”

“I’m serious. Get off the car—Christ, you’re like a teenage boy.”

“You know what your problem is?” he said, still making no move. “You think the world owes you. You think you’re entitled. Well, I’m here to tell you you’re not owed anything. This city is my city. American princesses can’t just come here and—”

“—Stop calling me that. Get off the damned hood.”

The frustration in her chest was now turning to anger, which, aided by John fanning the flames, was quickly turning into rage. She didn’t like that he had this effect on her. He was behaving like a child. This attitude never would’ve been permitted at the FBI. She vaguely wondered about his story. He didn’t seem like a very good agent. He was bored half the time, sarcastic the other half, and angry throughout it all. So why had they hired him? And, most importantly, why was he still sitting on her car with that enraging smirk?